


so i'll leave it up to you

by thermodynamicActivity (chlorinetrifluoride)



Series: The Collegestuck 'Verse [15]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Gen, Humanstuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 15:48:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11256063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chlorinetrifluoride/pseuds/thermodynamicActivity
Summary: A few years ago, you put your protest signs down for long enough to make excellent grades in graduate school, and to become a high school history teacher. Once more, it’s September, and the first day of school. This isn’t your first year at this school, but it is your first year teaching US History, and it’s your first year teaching an AP class. To no one's surprise but your students' (and possibly your own), you decide to be unorthodox with your first day of school speech. So lot of what you end up telling the juniors in your class has nothing to do with the coursework, but is still stuff you think someone should say to them anyway.You’re Krishna Vandayar, the artist formerly known as “that loud fucker with the megaphone”, and if there’s anything you can do, it’s give a lecture you think is necessary.





	so i'll leave it up to you

**Author's Note:**

> i needed to write a signless "first day of school" thing like the one i wrote for the disciple  
> also most of this fic occurred to me while i was listening to one song  
> do not underestimate the power of music  
> i've linked the song down below  
> i hope you enjoy the fic!  
> i might continue it, i haven't decided yet.
> 
> like always, here's the humanstuck name list for the ancestors relevant to this fic:  
> Krishna Vandayar - The Signless  
> Simon Cao - The Psiioniic  
> Yekaterina "Katya" Levin - The Disciple  
> Marisol Perez - Neophyte Redglare  
> Dolores Martineau - The Dolorosa  
> Masae Sakamoto - Mindfang  
> Cecily Perlman - The Condesce, sorta (there are two condys in collegestuck and they are completely different people)

**_Tax the rich, feed the poor  
‘till there are no rich no more._ **

**_I’d love to change the world,_  
** _**but I don’t know what to do.**_  
_**So I’ll leave it up to you.**_  
  
\- Ten Years After, [I’d Love to Change the World](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DBYRTK62pVWQ&t=YzNkZDAzOTBjOGJjODVkZTJkNzdmMTU5YjEzMjk3OWIyNTgwZTA0Myx4ZEZKU3ZMag%3D%3D&b=t%3A8Enk7uOusypR8G83_Qgk5Q&p=http%3A%2F%2Fc0llegestuck.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F162055686480%2Ftitle-so-ill-leave-it-up-to-you-fandom&m=1)

* * *

**September 2005 - Krishna Vandayar**  
  
It’s your first day teaching AP US History, which fills you with a certain amount of dread. This is a college level class. This is _Hard Shit._ It doesn’t matter that your only APUSH section isn’t until 9th period. In fact, that makes it worse. Everyone’ll be ready to go home, extracurriculars, or detention by the time your class rolls around.

And, your students are high school juniors. They’re not much younger than you are. How are you going to get them to respect you?

The educators you respected at that stage of your development were the ones you treated like human beings. That seems to be the best approach, at least in your opinion.

Even if your on-and-off boyfriend would give you shit for it.

When the two of you are home, in the apartment you share with him, Simon privately talks about his students like they’re cockroaches, a minor nuisance he’s forced to deal with. You are no way in hell going to operate like that.

Still, you’ve seen him smile while he was grading. Once, he showed you a test paper he’d graced with a rare 93.

“See this explanation of angular momentum? So succinct, yet comprehensive,” Simon tells you, the smile still on his face. "This kid’s gonna get a 5 on the exam, for sure. If she doesn’t, I’ll find a way to meet and punch the graders.”

Since one of your prep periods coincides with one of Simon’s, the two of you walk to get lunch from somewhere that isn’t the food truck. You don’t get his dislike for the food truck. Yes, the woman running it has a sharp tongue and an even sharper temper, but you rather like her. And her truck has good taquitos, anyway.

While you walk, Simon informs you you that teaching juniors is pretty alright, ‘cause they’re all so scared shitless of getting A minuses and fucking up their college prospects that they’ll do pretty much anything you say.

“Right.”

You find that piece of information rather alarming. The idea that these students might be terrified of you, because of some arbitrary numbers that apparently determine their self worth, and future prospects.

School isn’t meant to be fun 24/7, but it also isn’t meant to be a prison.

Now, you know exactly what you’re going to say come 9th period.

If you get in trouble, so be it.

“Never teach seniors, though,” Simon suggests. “First semester, they’re fucking angelic. Second semester? After college acceptance letters come out? What’s that line from that poem Katya likes? _‘Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.’_ That’s second term seniors. Even my _good_ students would ditch my class to play handball every so often, after April.”

You snort, as he drinks his XXXXL sized coffee he got from the Dunkin Donuts by the the Mosholu Parkway train station. He asked them to put like forty shots of espresso and twelve pumps of vanilla flavor into it. No milk. No cream. No nothing.

Just a gigantic cup of bitter coffee cut with the cloying taste of vanilla nonsense.

You’re rather amused at the sight, and shortly after, tell him he should just get a fishbowl, fill it with coffee, and drink it throughout the day.

“Don’t think I haven’t tried,” he says. “Hey Krish, you got a cigarette?”

Katya keeps telling you that you’re quitting, and shooting pointed glares at Simon when she can, because you two enable each other. And you swear up and down that every pack will be your last. You pull out a mostly-empty box of Newport 100s, and hand him one. Maybe that’ll be your last.

Actually no. You can quit after the first week of school. That’s when you’ll do it. Definitely. For certain.

“Ah, shit. Fucking _menthols?_ Where’s your sense of taste?” Simon wants to know. “Man, I bummed a Parli menthol off someone this morning too. I can’t fucking win. Where the fuck is Mari when you need her?”

“Masae voluntarily gave you a cigarette?” you ask, rather surprised that she would dare part with one of her precious smokes.

She’s the only faculty member in your little group who smokes, besides you two, and Marisol, who smokes Marlboro Reds like a chimney whenever she’s stressed out. Which is often, come to think of it.

“Nah, I got it from some student sitting on the steps across the street from school. I think she’s in my class next period.”

Sometimes, you just want to kick Simon in the shin or something. Or slap some sense into him. The years you’ve known him have clued you into the fact that he’s never, ever going to listen to one of your lectures, unless he’s high on ecstasy and keeps telling you how much he loves you.

(Oh, graduate school. You learned so much, most of it outside the classroom.)

“You bummed a _cigarette_ off a _student_?” you ask, torn between being scandalized and wondering why you should have expected anything else

“Hey, it was 7:30. School wasn’t in session yet. Therefore, she was not my problem for another half hour. Think I should give her extra credit, all things being equal?”

You sip from your iced coffee - you take sugar  _and_ milk when you drink coffee, because you are not a fucking heathen - and roll your eyes.

“Simon, you are an unmitigated disaster, in case nobody’s told you.”

He takes a drag off a cigarette and pointedly blows the smoke into your face.

“I know you fuckers are engaged, but stop stealing Katya’s catchphrases, wouldja? It’s like there’s two of you, sometimes.”

By the time the both of you are finished smoking the last of your cigarettes, there’s 15 minutes left until 7th period. You and he have 7th period classes to teach. So you walk back to school, come in through the main entrance, flash your IDs at the security guard, and make for the faculty bathroom near the Physics department.

“Can’t teach a bunch of these fuckers smelling like an ashtray,” he says. He washes his hands, and sprays himself with some of that cologne you got him. You’d figured, like most of the stuff you’ve given him, that he’d found some way to lose it in the self-sustaining vortex of garbage known as his apartment.

Apparently not. He holds the bottle out to you.

“Want any?”

You accept it. Then, you wash your own hands. You also accept two pieces of spearmint gum from him. Apparently it’s the best at chasing the cigarette taste out of your mouth.

“You’ve worked chain smoking during school hours down to a science, haven’t you?” you ask him, rather entertained by the thought.

“Krish, I’ve been smoking since I was fourteen. I worked smoking during school down to a science back when I was on the _other_ side of the desk.”

You laugh. Simon’s hand is still on yours. He leans forward.

“A kiss for luck, jackass?” he asks. “You could probably use one.”

You two end up kissing with a bit more enthusiasm than intended. You throw an arm around his waist. His hands find their way into your hair to tug you forward. You thank whoever might be listening, that no faculty member decides to use the bathroom while you two are acting like idiot sophomores.

Then, Simon pulls away abruptly, so much that he knocks you off balance. The action even sends his glasses flying.

Two seconds later, you hear the bell that signals the end of 6th period. First, you pick up his glasses. Then, you stare at him with something like wonder.

"You've memorized the bell schedule down to the second?" you want to know.

"Not really," he replies. "I was like... a second and a half off. Gotta know when to end my lesson. The clock in room 127 is inaccurate. And broken."

"It's right twice a day then," you quip. "And oh dear, an  _entire_ second? What now?"

"Fuck you, Krishna."

"You really don't want to hear my response to that, Si."

Simon’s color is a little high.

You grin at him, since you're too dark to blush visibly.

“Let’s, uh…” He starts out. “Let’s continue that when we get back to my place.”

You nod.

“Naturally.”

That's something to look forward to after school, then. Assuming you survive 9th period.

You make your way across the school and up two flights of stairs to the History department. You unlock the door to room 305, and your students walk in, some in groups, and some alone. You try to make a mental note of the ones coming in alone, who look utterly lost within their surroundings.

You’ll try to pay them more attention.

You’re more than prepared for these students, all freshmen. You taught Global Studies last year, so you know how this works. You know what to do.

Mostly, you pass out textbooks, and give a brief outline of what they’re going to learn this year.

Once you’re finished doing that, and confirm that nobody has any questions, you figure there’s not enough time in the period to really jump into a lesson. So you decide to play a little game with them. An icebreaker.

“Tell me your name, what you think you want to study after high school, and one interesting fact about yourself.”

You have a lot of future doctors, biologists, and chemists in this class. And even one or two teachers. That makes you smile. Everyone seems to want to know _exactly_ what subject they want to pursue, once college rolls around. You think a few of them might not be telling the whole truth.

However, by far, the best response you get in terms of “interesting facts” is from the aspiring neurobiologist who found out, when he was five, that he could fit four jellybeans into his nose.

You laugh the hardest you have all day.

The student sitting next to him - an aspiring writer -  confirms that yes, what he told you was true, because he was the one who dared his friend to do it at the time.

That makes you laugh even more.

The other students participate in the exercise, but nobody can top jellybean guy. You don’t think anyone will ever top jellybean guy. Katya may not believe you when you tell her. but you think she might. Simon probably will, because, as he’s said, _“I’ve seen all kinds of weird shit as a teacher.”_

The end of 7th period bell rings.

On their way out, you tell your students to start reading chapter 1 of the textbook, but since every day this school week is going to be shorter than usual, you tell them not to start reading too hard. As long as they can get it done by Monday, their first full day, they’ll be fine. And you’ll be there to answer questions.

8th period starts.

You spend half of that period staring down your reflection in the bathroom mirror. The nick you gave yourself while shaving this morning is barely noticeable.

You make sure that your Afro is completely in order, adjust your bright red tie, and undo the buttons on your slate-gray sport coat. This in case you get hot and have to take it off, since the AC in room 305 barely works. You don’t look as dignified with it unbuttoned, though. Come to think of it, you look like a… what would Marisol call it? A complete weenie? Well, unlucky for you, you look like a complete weenie either way.

So just fuck it. What was it Simon told you? Your juniors’ baseline impression of you will be fear? 

You’re ambivalent toward that sentiment.

On one hand, if he’s right, your job will go a lot more smoothly, depending on how you want to qualify that word. On the other hand, if he’s right, that speaks volumes for the failures of the educational system. All these students, attending one of the best schools in the city, with access to resources that rival certain colleges, and instead of drinking in information because they _want_ to, they’ve been beaten into a weary, wary submission.

_Who cares about knowing things for the sake of knowing them, when straight A’s are what you need for college?_

Your freshmen aren’t much different, nor were the freshmen and sophomores you taught last year, and they’re all years away from college apps. All of them wanted good grades. All of them were practiced in the art of rote memorization.

When you challenged them to think for themselves, as opposed to giving the answers they thought you’d like, or thought would net them 100 on the Regents Exam, a… not insignificant number of them did much worse on that assignment.

But you thought of their earnest, almost pleading faces - _If I get a C, how will I get into AP Euro? How will I get into Yale with a B- in Global?_ \- and couldn’t bring yourself to give any of those assignments a grade below 80.

Instead, you scribbled commentary on each and every single one, pointing out strengths, weaknesses, and things to consider in the future. You may have written more on some of their papers than they did.

You lean back against the bathroom wall, consider having a cigarette, and sigh.

Is this how we educate the brightest minds of the future? you ask yourself. Is this the legacy we hand to them? Is this how we send them into the world? Cowering and acquiescing in the face of authority, with their eyes and minds full of strings of numbers, refusing to question the directives they’ve been given?

_100._

_5._

_36._

_2400._

And then, the reprise of this awful song, once they begin college: _4.0_

Achieve these numbers by any means necessary. Study for six hours a day. Choose important-sounding extracurriculars, even if you hate them, and choose as many as possible. Even if all of this comes to the detriment of your physical and/or mental health.

_(What’s that worth, if you’re not perfect?)_

Is that everything that they are? All that they can be? Is that fair to them? Is it fair to anyone?

Was it fair to you when you were on their side of the desk? All this expectation to excel? To the point where excelling was/is thought of as merely adequate?

( _You never believed so. The woman you call mother, a guidance counselor, who often witnessed students in states of hysterics over a single A-, never believed so either_.)

During the last half of 8th period, with some help from the kids who volunteer there, you carry thirty AP US History textbooks from the office in room 307D to room 305.

You gaze at your attendance sheet again, to make sure you have enough. These particular books look fairly new. You’re sort of hoping they go further than the Reagan administration. You feel like your students would have a greater respect for history, if the book treated events that happened in their own lifetime as history. It would give them perspective.

You have a copy of the textbook you’ll be using this year, the teacher’s edition, currently sitting on your desk. You had it at home too, intending to go through the entire thing with a fine-toothed comb.

However, things kept coming up - like your engagement - that left you without much time to do more than scan through it. The text struck you as being kind of bullshit. Like, a lot of bullshit. Like, you were going to have to find some way to convey this to your students.

(No. Don’t tell them that it’s bullshit. Let them come to their own conclusions. You do not know everything, Krishna. Everyone is entitled to believe what they want, even when you disagree.  This, with certain caveats, like outright hate speech. People are not entitled to that, not in your classroom.)

You open the book to a chapter on the civil rights movement, read as much of it as you can in six or so minutes - a lot, you read fast - and you roll your eyes. If such a book were written by a nation the US deemed hostile, about that respective nation, it would be called propaganda.

Here, it’s called _history._

You resist the urge to bang your head against the whiteboard.

But you are pleasantly surprised that this book goes further than the Clinton administration, all the way to 2002.

The fact that this textbook covers September 11th - jingoistic as its description of the events leading to the War on Terror may be -  well.. it’s… strange to behold.

You’ve lived through _history_ , important history and _you’re still years away from thirty._

You vividly remember you and Simon staring at the TV screen, all fucking day, unable to speak, while Katya walked the hundred or so blocks from downtown to Simon’s apartment. You keep thinking of how her feet looked when she finally got to Simon’s. She’d been wearing high heels that day, and didn’t notice when her feet had begun to bleed. She was too concerned with getting as far away from Cortlandt Street station as possible.

You wonder if your mother ever felt this same sense of strangeness when your history books covered the Vietnam War.

You sigh.

Since you’re still mad about the educational system, you decide to sing something to calm yourself down. Your students won’t start filing in for another few minutes.

Eighth period doesn’t even end for another ten.

You remember that same mother and all her old anti-war records, from the days when _she_ was an activist in the picket line.

You start to sing.

_“Everywhere is_  
_freaks and hairies,_  
_dykes and fairies;_  
_Tell me where is_  
_sanity?_

_Tax the rich,  
feed the poor,  
till there are–”_

The door to your room opens without lock or prelude, mid-verse. You wonder if it’s Mari asking you for another whiteboard marker, since they stocked her room with red ones, and she can’t exactly read that color well, given the tint of her glasses.

No. Instead, it’s a student, with skin the color of the iced coffee in your cup. She wears a tank top with the feminist symbol on it, a pair of green shorts, and green high heels to match. 

But the first thing you _really_ notice is that she has the longest set of jumbo box braids you’ve ever seen, and that is counting every part of Brooklyn that matters.

Some of the braids come down past her waist. How does her head stay on with all that weight?

There are also an array of piercings in her face, one ring in each ear, two rings in her left eyebrow, one in her right, and one in her lip.

Despite her ostentatious presentation, she’s clearly nervous about something.  She takes out her three ring binder and scrutinizes her schedule.

“Sorry about, uh, interrupting you, sir,” she says. “Is this the room for 9th period AP US?”

“Yes, yes it is.”

If she’s here so early, you might as well mark her present on the attendance sheet. You take it out.

“What’s your name.”

“Porrim Maryam. Well, my name’s actually Akuba, that’s what they call me at home, but the name on my school records is Porrim.”

“Akuba?” you ask, an eyebrow quirked. You’ve heard that name before. You knew a lot of Ghanaians in the Black Student Union when you were an undergraduate. “What part of Ghana is your family from?”

She looks momentarily shocked that you’ve made that particular connection.

“Accra, sir,” she answers.

“You don’t have to call me sir. It makes me feel old. Call me Mr. Vandayar. Or Mr. V. Whichever you like,” you tell her.

“Okay, Mr. V.”

But there’s still something about her that seems ill at ease. Call it your intuition, but you think you suspect what. 

“You know, you’re here awfully early. Had 8th free?” you ask. “If you didn’t, I won’t give you detention. You have my word.”

She looks at the floor in front of her.

“I may have cut gym to finish my summer assignment for this class,” she says.

Now, you should probably give her a lecture about not cutting class. You should probably also giver her a lecture on not procrastinating. But you did both of those things in high school, and you’re not a dean, so quite frankly, you cannot be so bothered.

Now she looks more comfortable. But she’s quiet. You never particularly cared for that tense sort of silence.

“What did you think of the summer assignment?” you ask, abruptly. “Which book did you pick?”

“I emailed you in July,” she says. “I picked a book that you didn’t put on the list.”

Oh, so she’s the girl who contacted you to ask if she could read, _“The Fire Next Time”_. You know a male student also contacted you to ask if he could read “ _Wretched of the Earth”_ , and you agreed to both these requests.

“I don’t make the list. The department does.” You try not to seem annoyed by this fact. “Nevertheless, how did you find the reading? What do you think about what James Baldwin had to say?”

She looks as if she’s struggling for the _correct_ answer. You sigh.

“In terms of history?”

“In terms of _anything_.”

“Baldwin’s angry, that part comes through loud and clear,” Porrim says. She amends her statement. “Well, _passionate_ , more than angry. But reading it was energizing. Even when I didn’t quite get what he was saying, I got it? Does that make any sense?”

“It makes complete sense, Akuba.”

“There was a quote, and I realized… _something_ ,” she says, thoughtfully. “That’s probably not specific. Hold on, let me find the quote.”

She pulls out her summer assignment, and you think that after her year, you’re going to start imposing page limits on those.

_Please do not hand in a senior thesis. You all aren’t even in college yet. And I cannot read thirty theses. They couldn’t pay me enough to read thirty theses._

That said, most of you is overjoyed that a student got excited enough about this assignment to write so much.

“There’s a place where he decries Christianity, well there’s a few, but there’s one stating that, _‘When we were told to love everybody, I had thought that meant everybody. But no. It applied only to those who believed as we did…’_ I went to Catholic school for ten years, s–… I mean, Mr. Vandayar. So I guess I identified with it a lot.”

“Excellent,” you say. “It’s good when you can connect with a text, even if the connection you make isn’t exactly related to history.”

Another student walks into your room, with skin slightly lighter than Porrim’s, who wears a red polo shirt and dark pants, and takes the seat next to her. They whisper at each other for a bit, and then he gets up, and walks over to you, both his and her summer assignments in his hand.

“I’m Kankri Vantas,” he says.

You mark him present. Then, he takes a seat near the window. He seems to be looking outside for someone.

You look the papers over. He was the one who wrote about “Wretched of The Earth”, and his assignment is roughly the same length as hers. Wonderful. 

This is going to be an interesting year.

Once everyone has arrived, or twenty-five of them, anyway, you write your name and your free periods on the board. You take attendance. After that, you start to speak.

“My name is Mr. Vandayar, and I’m going to be teaching your AP US class this year,” you begin. You point to the times you wrote on the board. “Feel free to come by the history office during one of these periods if you need to go over anything, or even if you need to have a talk with someone. I should be there, or in this room. If I’m not, we can generally talk after class.”

Your students all look vaguely bored. You don’t blame them. That’s the start to a standard “welcome to the new school year” speech. And this is 9th period. Their patience must be at an all time low.

You pause.

“Before I hand out your textbooks, and tell you what I expect of you from this college-level course, I want to say a few things you may _not_ have heard from someone on my side of this desk,” you say. “First off, contrary to what many people tell you, you are more than scattergrams on Naviance, more than SAT scores and overall averages. You are meant for so much more than chasing after numbers. To be frank, I think that whole system is complete and utter bullshit.”

Most of the class looks absolutely stunned. A few are exchanging glances.

You think you’re doing this right.

“All of you are _individuals._ As individuals, you have thoughts and opinions, and those thoughts and opinions are worth sharing, if, and especially when they disagree with mine. Do not be afraid to think for yourselves. _Do not let me think for you. I leave the thinking up to you._ ”

Porrim starts to smile. You go on.

“This is _not_ a math class, where two and two _must_ be four. In this classroom, I am learning from you just as much as you may be learning from me. So if you add two and two and get seven, tell me why, but _be prepared to defend your assertions_. Furthermore, when I give you assignments, although I’ll use the same criteria the AP exam does, I’ll expect you to think carefully. Do more than strive for a number. For your own sake.”

You pick up a copy of the textbook, hold it up for them to see, and knock on it. You set it back down on your desk.

“So, In terms of sharing thoughts? Take this book, for example. Most of the time - barring supplemental materials - I will teach to it, because I want you all to do well on the AP exam. However, I personally think of it as a piece of propaganda, as a lie crafted by white supremacy to enforce the status quo. But you may think differently. And if you do, I encourage you to say so. _Don’t always assume I have all the answers_.”

You pause again. All twenty-five faces are staring at you with with rapt attention, some looking somewhat awestruck. Kankri seems to be copying down what you’re saying.

“There may be other such disagreements here, due to the nature of this class. I am open to letting you have them with each other, and with me, as long as they remain civil. If, however, they do not, I _will_ intervene as I see fit. I hope you understand why.”

Someone in the hallway shouts something like, _“You know what, fuck you! See if I ever lend you my lighter again, you thieving fuck!”_

Originally, when you hear the first bit, you think they’re addressing you. Then, you hear the rest. Apparently there’s some kind of argument going on down the hall, over a missing Zippo lighter.

You step outside and try to look stern. You must look more intimidating than you think you do. The arguing stops.

The young man who was doing most of the shouting walks into your classroom, acting like he’s about to be decapitated at any moment.

“Sorry about uh, cursing near your classroom,” he says. “I’m in, uh, I’m pretty sure I’m in this class. Actually, I can just go to the dean’s office now, and spare making you write a referral. Just tell me how many detentions you wanna give me, so I can let them know. I’m Mituna, by the way.”

Porrim says something like, _“great way to make a first impression, Tuna.”_

Presently, you need to reassure this poor young man that you’re not going to kill him before he faints dead away.

“It’s fine. It’s perfectly fine. I am not about to put you in detention on the first day of school, over what I’m sure was a _highly important_ argument. A stolen lighter is not a matter to be taken lightly,” Several people in the class catch onto your sarcasm and laugh, including Mituna. “In the future, though, I would much appreciate it if you could be less disruptive in the hallway.”

“You got it man. I will never fuckin’ disrupt anything again,” he swears. “Or, uh, curse in your class. Won’t do that either.”

He sits down behind Porrim, and tugs on one of her braids. She sighs and rolls her eyes. The girl sitting next to him - Latula - murmurs something like, “Babe, you missed him cursing in his own class. It was awesome.”

You manage to keep yourself from laughing.

Then, you hand out textbooks to your students.

“Keep track of these, okay? They’re pretty much brand new, and you’ll have to pay full for them if you lose them. You’re all juniors. You know the deal by now,” you say. “And since you’re juniors, I want to remind you of one more thing. You know how much colleges will see these grades. But remember to take care of yourselves. I don’t care how many AP classes you’re in, or how many extracurricular activities you have after school. Take time for yourself. You are human beings. And you can’t learn or do much of anything if you’re burnt out.”

You’re not quite finished yet.

“Therefore, if you feel overwhelmed by the amount of work I’m giving you, at any point, or need an some kind of extension on a major assignment, please talk to me, preferably sooner rather than later. Accommodations can be made for you, even if you don’t have an IEP.”

Your students are still exchanging glances, most of them something to the effect of, “Is he for real?” and/or “Can you believe this shit?”

One of your students calls you “one rad motherfucker”. You wish you knew whom.

By the time you’ve explained your purely academic expectations, and handed out the syllabus, the period is nearly through. You ask everyone to pass up their summer assignments, assuring them that you won’t start taking points off for lateness until the day after tomorrow.

“That means, if you haven’t started it yet, _now_ might be a good time to consider it. I’ll deduct five for every day past Friday - weekends not included - unless you have a decent excuse, preferably with documentation.”

Once that’s done, there’s ten minutes left in the period.

You decide to do the same icebreaking exercise you did for 7th period.

This time around, the most interesting thing anyone has about themselves is that they went sledding off their porch roof after a blizzard when they were 9, broke an arm and a leg, and had thought it was the coolest stunt ever.

And as for what your students want to do in/after college? 

In your class, you have writers, engineers, nurses, physicists, lawyers, professional video game players (what), toxicologists, and more than a few people who are now willing to admit that they have not the slightest idea what they want to study in college or do with their lives yet.

“It’s okay to not know. More people don’t know then you’d think. You don’t have to know. You’re even allowed to _change your mind_.”

The bell sounds.

“Have a good night, guys,” you tell them, still standing at your desk, watching them leave.

Once everyone is gone, you sit down, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

_Holy shit._ You made it through day one of AP US History. You look at the stack of papers in front of you. Just when you’re about to put your face down on the papers and groan, you hear a familiar, beautiful voice in your vicinity.

“I told you that you wouldn’t kill them by accident, Krishna,” Katya says, stepping into the room, and sitting down on your desk.

You massage your brow. “I don’t know if I said the _right_ things to them.”

Katya grins, all mischievous like always.

“I might have had 9th period free, and I might have spent it sitting next to the door and listening to your lesson,” she says.

You sigh.

“What if Cecily fires me over this? I cursed in front of students, unless you missed that part.”

“I think Cecily knew exactly what she was hiring when she interviewed you. If she was going to fire you, she would have done it last year. Besides, I rather liked what you told them. Maybe they’ll start to believe it if they hear it from enough of us.”

“It’s easy for us to say, now. We’re not in the rat-race anymore.”

“Even so, I think there’s a decent possibility we can make our students question why they’re running. And if they do? Maybe they’ll make things better for those who come after them.”

“If they don’t? If we change nothing?”

“We always change something, Krishna. Small or large, but it’s on us to act. That’s what you would say, anyway.” She kisses your forehead. “And even if we don’t, even if we don’t budge things a single inch? At least we can say we tried. Sound good?”

You take her hand, and let her lead you from the classroom.

“Sounds good.”

**Author's Note:**

> i think this fic transitions nicely into "adorn me with a lighter burden", which is two fics down from this one.
> 
> as for the random numbers krishna thinks of?  
> 100 - the usual maximum grade for a test  
> 5 - the top score for an AP exam  
> 36 - the max score one can get on the ACT  
> 2400 - the max score one can get on the SAT, back then, anyway  
> 4.0 (groan) - the highest GPA you can get in college


End file.
